


Paris in the Rain

by heartless16



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Field Trip, Friendship, It's For a Case, One Shot, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes and Experiments, Singing, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 19:36:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7654072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartless16/pseuds/heartless16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While in the midst of a case, Sherlock Holmes goes on a field trip with Molly Hooper and discovers a different side to the pathologist. She won't stop singing though...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paris in the Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Paris in the Rain
> 
> Summary: While on a case, Sherlock goes on a field trip with Molly Hooper and discovers a different side to his pathologist. She won't stop singing though...
> 
> Song Lyrics: Don't Leave Me [Ne Me Quitte Pas] by Regina Spektor
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the song lyrics or the characters.

He dashes along the pavement, hand outstretched for a cab, completely ignoring the curious looks from the milling pedestrians. Perhaps it _was_ somewhat odd to be tearing across London wearing brown cowboy boots, dark winter coat and scarf and a large brimmed leather coloured Stetson. But it wasn't his fault there was a cowboy convention...in London of all places.

Besides, there was no time to remove his disguise.

The difficult-to-obtain vial of saliva he'd managed to extract from a suspect in his latest case could quite possibly contain an enzyme, which catalysed a specific reaction, that yielded a very specific product, that was probably difficult to detect, but would confirm his hypothesis, determine the culprit _and_ wrap up the case.

And what a case it was…definitely an eight.

It would be a complete waste of time returning to Baker Street simply to remove the…' garish outfit that only belongs in a cheesy spaghetti western', as John so eloquently stated when he had arrived at the location with his coat and scarf.

Sherlock realized it he probably should have told him to bring a pair of shoes as well…but that thought swiftly dissipated when the suspect attempted to escape… and besides shoes were boring. Stetsons were cool though…

Hands fumble in his coat pockets…where was his mobile? Blue eyes darted frantically, zeroing in on a cab that pulled up across the busy street. The man paused, calculating his chances. The stop-light ahead changes from green to red in…approximately two minutes. The street is not terribly busy; the speed limit is thirty miles per hour. The cab driver will move in about forty-five seconds… by the way his hands keep grasping at the wheel.

He darts out into the road, narrowly avoiding a collision with a passing vehicle, and scrambles into the cab. "St. Bart's Hospital." The man leans against the seat, a smirk gracing his face as he stares out the window and catches a glimpse of his flat mate's exasperated expression.

A breathy laugh escapes his lips when he glances at the screen of his mobile. It was a text from John.

' _Didn't your mother teach you how to cross the road?'_

Sherlock replies, his mouth quirking into a smile. _'Must have deleted it.'_

**oOoOo**

The sound of his shoes tapping rhythmically against the linoleum flooring is somewhat soothing as he makes his way down to the morgue. His mind is at work, sorting through details, data…files and files of information. Which facts were relevant? What should be deleted? The fact that the victim was an ardent cheese lover and most likely did not go a day without savouring a thick slice of the dairy product seemed like a useless piece of information, but how else could he account for the fact that the poison that killed her was most potent when ingested?

The victim's last meal, a measly snack of crackers and a new tub of cheese spread, bought at the behest of her nephew (owner of the hard-to-get-hold-of saliva sample), had been the sole clue that lead him to make a visit to the man's hotel room.  
What about the motive? Did it have anything to do with the fact that the victim recently acquired a rather large plot of estate…in Texas of all places? Moreover, said nephew's father bequeathed that land to the victim and left his only son out of the will completely.

And how did the victim's girlfriend fit in to the picture? She was the one who cajoled the victim to eat that least meal…had she known of the nephew's plans?

It was more likely that her well-meaning concern quickly morphed into an assassination attempt at the hands of the nephew…no doubt to shift the blame. The incompetent police forces did not think to question why a woman planning to propose to her girlfriend of five years would suddenly want to dispose of her.

The set up had been obvious from the beginning.

Sherlock paused suddenly outside the laboratory, hands suspended in the air, not quite believing what he was hearing. Music was wafting through the doors …a phenomena that, in his mind, was as foreign as those inane pop culture references John randomly threw out. He pushes open the doors, noting the scent of antiseptic cleaner, stronger than usual, taking in the complete disarray of the tabletops and the cabinet doors that rested ajar on their hinges.

His footsteps sounded heavily on the hard flooring, but the noise was lost on the room's sole occupant, as she continued singing along to the upbeat tune blaring from…her mobile?

Sherlock is not sure what to be more confounded about…the completely illogical lyrics or the fact that Molly Hooper was singing them. He listens; trying, _failing_ , to understand as Molly softly sings of _'Lexington'_ and _'new shoes stuck to ageing feet '_ , _'the ghost of Christmas Past_ ,and _'won't you stay the night?'_

The consulting detective startles when the pathologist twirls around suddenly on the footstool and skips down, her flat shoes clicking rhythmically against the floor. His eyebrows rise in further astonishment as he observes her dance across the room, a spray bottle of antiseptic cleaner and a dust rag dangling from her gloved hands. " _Ne me quitte pas mon cher; Ne me quite pas…"_ She croons this phrase several times, her voice light and playful, a smile of amusement lifting the corners of her lips.

Sherlock realized with a pang that he could not recall ever seeing the pathologist this…relaxed, carefree. He has no memory of Molly Hooper being so…happy.

"Sherlock! Why are you here?" Molly is staring at him now, arms cradling several bottles of reagent. Her feet keep shifting on the floor, not out of any nervous gesture…but in time to the music still wafting from the side pocket of her lab coat. Turning, she steps back onto the footstool, sliding the bottles back into the cabinet.

The consulting detective moves further into the laboratory, watching with a critical eye as Molly replaces the jars. He realizes, with extreme annoyance, that the cabinet is hopelessly disorganized; the hydrochloric acid is sitting right next to methanol, which is in front of the iodine solution, and behind the hexane…how could he conduct his experiments in such clutter?

Acting quickly, he plucks the container of acrylamide from her fingers and sets it down on the lab table. His hands circle around her waist and he lifts her from the footstool and deposits her gently on the ground. Sherlock peers into the cabinet…such ineptitude simply could not be remedied. Shaking his head he pulls the jars back out, and stares at Molly Hooper's disgruntled face. The detective decides not to mention the slight blush on her cheeks. "Now then. How shall we sort this…?" He gestures to the cluttered lab bench, unsure of which word to use to describe the sight. "…this monstrosity?"

Molly scrunches up her nose. "Uhm…Alphabetical order?"

"Boring."

"Oh. Well…what about liquids and solids?"

"Boring!"

"Reverse alphabe-"

"Boooring!"

Molly is glaring now, her hands folded defiantly across her chest. The happy and carefree look that adorned her face minutes ago seemed like an apparition…an image conjured by his distracted mind. "How about polarity?" The tone of her voice seems somewhat sarcastic.

Sherlock whirls around, clasping her shoulders in elation. "Oh that's brilliant, Molly! He spins her around quickly before releasing her shoulders, watching with a smile as she regains her balance, shoes taping against the floor in a dainty but random rhythm. He notes that the happy expression is back on her face, albeit with some confusion. With a flourish, he pulls the saliva sample from his pocket and dangles it before her. "I need this analysed…it's for a case."

Molly takes the sample from him with her fingertips, and he observes that she's painted them a peculiar shade of purple… a colour that doesn't quite complement _anything_ she's wearing at the moment. She eyes the vial for several seconds, before realization dawns suddenly on her face. "Sherlock is this…"

"Saliva, yes."

"And you acquired it…how?" Molly is peering at him now, with a look that the detective doesn't quite appreciate; a cross between astonishment and disgust.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Doesn't matter… as I said, it's for a case." He's working rapidly, sliding the clear and sometimes amber coloured glasses of chemicals into the cabinets, the non-polar solvents like hexane and chloroform on the far left side, and the very polar solvents like methanol and ammonia on the right.

"A case…Right." Molly mumbles quietly. "Is that why you're… wearing the-the hat? And those…boots?" Her voice higher pitched than normal and quivery…as if she's holding back laughter.

Sherlock decides it would be in his best interest if that question went unanswered. Perhaps the next shelf could hold the dyes; iodine, ethidium bromide and eosin were useful for microscopy...these he would organize by the color they exuded under the microscope lens. As for the acrylamide…that belonged on the top shelf.

The pathologist nods slowly. "And…What exactly am I looking for?"

He voices his suspicions about the suspect in the case accidentally ingesting some of the toxin that had been used to murder the victim, as well as the specific enzyme and potential compound he'd been hoping to identify. At this he watches Molly's lips scrunch in contemplation.

"I don't think we can analyse this sample here."

"Why not?"

"Well…"The pathologist sets down the vial carefully and busies herself with procuring a proper label for the sample. "You know the enzyme in question…and you want to identify it in the sample, yes?" She continues her explanation, without waiting for a reply. "We don't have the correct instruments to identify enzymes…at least not without an assay? Perhaps if the compound absorbed some form of light…but then we need to know a specific activity assay and it can be quite tedious searching through the literature…"

Her voice trails off and she smoothly presses the label onto the smooth glass vial. "But, I do know somewhere we can go…and my friend is an expert at this sort of thing." She smiles softly as she places the vial into a sealed biohazard bag. "I used to love field trips when I was in school…did you?"

Sherlock merely blinks.

**oOoOo**

Their 'field trip' as Molly Hooper so eloquently coined it, was a short cab ride to the King's College Chemistry Department. A short hellish cab ride, because Molly insisted on singing to herself, repeating that phrase over and over until they reached their destination. _"Ne me quitte pas mon cher; Ne me quite pas…"_

Sherlock wanted to gripe, to tell her to stop because it was affecting his thinking, interfering with The Work. Only, he wasn't too sure she would even comply. This mood she was in-this happy, light-hearted (Somewhat flirty?) disposition…he'd never encountered it before. It was undiscovered data, a collection of information about Molly Hooper that the consulting detective realized had been missing from his Mind Palace.

Such knowledge about her various moods might be very useful should he require access to the laboratory and any body parts for experimentation. Best to analyse it quickly…before this very rare temperament is swept away.  
His only consolation from the peppy tune had been the little notepad she told him to compile about the enzyme. For a few short minutes, Molly refrained from singing to order him to write down everything he could about the enzyme and its suspected product. "You know the mass of your product? And the enzyme? Those are important…write them down. What about the structure?"

She is not looking at him; rather, her fingers are flying across the keypad of her mobile, and he sees that she is simultaneously sending out a series of texts (no doubt to this 'friend who is an expert') and also looking up information. "The… product, I mean, do you know it? Write that down too. Uhm…anything else about the enzyme that stands out…write that too. Did I mention the mass? Ah, and you might want to take the suspect into custody-er- hospital…just in case the enzyme's toxic, or we need more samples. It isn't… toxic…right?" Molly laughs nervously. "Wouldn't want to bring a dangerous sample into the university…"

Sherlock reassures her that the enzyme is relatively harmless…unless someone decides to drink the sample; he can't help but smile at the look of revulsion that flashes across her features.

The consulting detective hurriedly fills out the notepad, somewhat uneasy by how easily she gave out commands… but there was no time to ponder, as he stumbled from the cab after the pathologist, no occasion to contemplate, as he followed her into the building and they managed to catch the lift, no possibility of reflection, as he stood awkwardly beside the doors of the research laboratory listening to Molly greet 'Alexander' and ask politely for one, 'Ms. Uchendu'.

Sherlock brushes the feeling aside…he couldn't dwell on Molly's sudden authoritative manner…not when there were so many instruments to observe…so many appliances and machines to explore. He glances briefly across the room, catching a glimpse of Molly standing beside a tall young woman clad in a white laboratory coat…they look occupied. He turns his attention back to the open text book in his hands… ah, mass spectrometry. Such an intriguing technique... _so this is why the mass of the product was so important._

When they leave the building two hours later, (not with a concrete answer, as these things take time…but Molly promised to contact him ASAP when she hears more) Sherlock is categorizing, filing away the pages of that text book into his Mind Palace, making a note to find out more…wondering if John would approve if he installed one in the kitchen.

He doesn't even mind Molly's humming. It seems to have invaded his Mind Palace, echoing alongside pictures of chromatograms, mass spectrums and mass-to-charge ratios. _"Ne me quitte pas mon cher; Ne me quite pas…"_

**oOoOo**

Sherlock stares into the microscope, looking at a slide that contained a sample of parasite found in the water. The exact species eluded him, but the detective was certain that it wasn't really important. He shifts in his seat, trying to ignore John Watson's inquisitive gaze. It was all Molly's fault…this unwarranted scrutiny. Why did she have to tell him that they'd gone on a 'little trip' around town? And in _that_ voice?

John's thoughts were about as inconspicuous as a neon billboard…he could practically see what the man was thinking.

"Don't, John."

"I didn't even say anything!" John replied with that annoying smirk still plastered on his face and the irritating twinkle of his eyes.

"You were thinking it." Sherlock retorts, placing the slide back into the box and retrieving another specimen. This one seems to have come from a park on the west side of London, as opposed to the previous sample, which came from Hyde Park. This information, however, did not answer the current question spinning within his mind; what were these samples even doing in a hospital laboratory?

The door opens, sending in a breeze and with it, Molly Hooper. In her arms are several small boxes, the labels of which are slightly obscured by her coat sleeves. Probably pipette tips, judging by the size and weight of the boxes. Sherlock watches as she dumps them slapdash on the table and begins the arduous task of sorting and replenishing the lab's dwindling supply of disposables. He sees boxes of latex gloves, various sizes of microliter Eppendorf tubes, microscope slides and cover slips, Quavers…no, those are placed swiftly into Molly's pockets, weighing paper…

The consulting detective turns away, the clutter on the desk beginning to flood his mind with useless data, and his eyes come to rest on John Watson, who is surprisingly not dozing but wide eyed and staring at Molly with a look of…disbelief?

And suddenly all the sounds of the laboratory come rushing into his ears, the hum of the ventilation systems, the sound of boxes being opened, John's even steady breathing, the sound of Molly's feet tapping rhythmically against the floor…and her voice, crisp and clear over the din of the room, singing along with the tune resonating from the mobile in her pockets. That same tune from the morning…the one now haunting the hallways of his mind.

" _I love Paris in the rain."_

Over and over, Molly Hooper sings…oblivious to her surroundings. Sherlock smiles softly and turns back to the microscope, ignoring John's look of astonishment. He would never understand these strange pop songs Molly seemed to love so much.

Besides, Paris was boring…especially in the rain.

**Author's Note:**

> How was it? Please review!
> 
> ~heartless16


End file.
